


I'll Show You the Difference

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, Almost Parentlock, Angst galore, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-His Last Vow, caught-in-the-act, roll-playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attempts to prove that Sherlock's love for him is platonic. He fails, miserably.</p><p>
  <em>That’s why you never make a vow, Sherlock thought. You’ll always break it, and then you’re a liar.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hospital

                Major Sholto was standing outside the glass, his hat in his hands, shoulders stiffly at attention—the way they always were, in that uniform. Sherlock saw a flash of his face through the throng of people that had crowded into the little hospital room to see the new baby. _Excellent_ , he thought. _An excuse to escape._

                Sherlock slipped past the Watson family members he’d only seen once before (at the wedding) and exited the room, unnoticed. He acknowledged Major Sholto with a head nod—which was reciprocated—and moved to stand next to him.

                “Major,” he greeted, nonchalantly.

                “Mr. Holmes,” the Major replied, equally polite and unenthusiastic.

                Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back in an effort to stand straighter—he had impeccable posture, of course, but there was something about the Major that always made him feel as if he were slouching.

                “How kind of you to come and visit the new family,” Sherlock remarked.

                “It appears as if I wasn’t the only one with that idea,” the Major replied. Sherlock glanced his way and found a small, sad smile on his lips.

                “Clearly not,” Sherlock agreed. “Apparently this is a thing, people bombarding hospital rooms. John is overwhelmed, though, you can see him pursing his lips at every exhale of breath.” He nodded toward where John was standing, doing just that. “I suspect he’ll want them all cleared out, soon.”

                “I suppose you’ll take on that task?”

                “Of course. I revel in telling people to piss off.”

                Major Sholto smiled again, out the corner of his mouth. “Ah, they all mean well.”

                “They nearly always do,” Sherlock concurred, disdainfully.

                The two of them were quiet for a few moments more, watching the baby being passed around from person to person, hearing the muffled “oohs” and “ahhs” and squeaky exclamations of how cute/beautiful/precious she was.

                “John will be a good father,” said Major Sholto, breaking the silence.

                Sherlock watched the way John looked after the child, concern and adoration written in his features, an unsettledness about him, too; he wanted to hold her again, have her back in his arms. She was barely ten hours old, but he already loved her.

                “Indeed he will.” Sherlock was immediately embarrassed by how he’d said that—he hadn’t meant it to sound so dejected. He hoped the Major hadn’t noticed. But then, again, he felt a certain kinship with Major Sholto, what with his being John’s ex-best friend and all. Sherlock thought of the Major as a glimpse of what he would be in the future, after John slowly pulled back his time and effort until Sherlock joined the ranks of his other ex-best friends. As he studied Major Sholto, the thought put knots in his stomach. It was not a happy future, to be sure.

                “A piece of advice,” the Major said, and suddenly they were facing each other. “Tell him.”

                Sherlock searched Major Sholto’s face, his eyebrows drawn over his eyes in puzzlement. “Tell him… what?”

                The Major studied him for a moment, sorrow pervading his expression. “How you feel. Before it’s too late.” He turned his head back to the window.

                Sherlock continued to stare at the Major, trying to deduce what he meant. His “advice” was clearly spoken from regret, from deep personal sadness, too deep for friendship… Sherlock’s forehead grew smooth again as he understood. He looked at the floor, a bit embarrassed for Major Sholto, that he thought… and for himself, that he’d given off _that_ vibe…

                “I’m not in love with John,” Sherlock said, quietly but deliberately.

                The Major turned his head back to look at him. “Aren’t you?” he asked. But the question was almost rhetorical, and Sherlock was stunned for a moment as he asked himself the same one.

_Aren’t I?_

                “Please give my love to John and Mary, and the baby, of course,” said the Major, putting his hat back on his head. “I’ll come visit another time.”

                Sherlock nodded, still put off by their exchange. “Oh—yes. Certainly.”

                The Major inclined his head in a goodbye and walked off down the hall. Sherlock watched his retreating figure, deep in thought, then turned back to look at John through the window—and was startled when John caught his eye. “ _Help_ ,” he mouthed, nodding in the direction of the crowd. Sherlock drew himself up and went back into the room, breaking up the party, pushing people out the door, clearing the room for his best friend.

***

                John and Sherlock strolled leisurely along the path, the gravel crunching under their shoes. They’d gone for a walk to take a break from the hospital (at Mary’s suggestion—well, more like “demand,” as John was getting a little too over-protective of the baby. “She _must_ have blood drawn,” Mary told Sherlock, too low for John to hear. “But he won’t let anyone go near her. Get him _out_ of here, Sherlock!” Sherlock had gotten John to agree to the “fresh air” aspect of it, had led him down the hall past a nurse who was standing behind the counter, waiting, ready to sneak into Mary’s room and do the proper tests as soon as John was gone. Sherlock gave her a wink as they passed, and she grinned with relief, scurrying into the room as they rounded the corner and went out the door). There was a park nearby, nothing fancy, just a simple grass-and-tree landscape with a winding gravel path throughout. They followed it around and around, the cool spring air refreshing them both.

                “I just can’t believe it,” said John, all starry-eyed and sleepy. “She’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “God, she’s already turned me into a full-blown sap,” he noted, clearly not caring that it was so. He smiled up at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, I’m such a blubbering fool right now—“

                “Nonsense,” Sherlock broke in, dismissively. “I would expect nothing less from a new father. I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ a blubbering fool.”

                John snorted at that, glancing sideways at him. “What a load of rubbish, it’s got to be driving you up the wall.”

                Sherlock didn’t respond, and John laughed. “Sorry. I should be asking what’s new with you, this is supposed to be my time away from the baby, anyway.”

                “Oh, nothing new really. The occasional case pops up, of course, but nothing at the moment.”

                John watched him as they walked. “You know, you can always give me a ring, if you need my help on a case. You know, my expertise.”

                It was Sherlock’s turn to snort, and John smiled again. “I’m perfectly capable of managing them myself.”

                “I know you’re capable,” John told him, his tone softer. “But I just… I’m still here, Sherlock. If you need me.”

                “I don’t need anyone,” Sherlock blurted, then bit the inside of his cheek in frustration—he hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.

                “If you _want_ me, then,” John amended, his voice a little colder. They walked in silence for a bit, unhappiness hanging over them like a thin fog. John checked his watch unnecessarily. “I should get back. Mary might need help with… something.” He picked up his pace, heading down the path back toward the hospital.

                Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and grab him. “John,” he said, instead, and stopped walking. John turned around and stopped, too. Waited for him to go on. _“I’m sorry”_ was what he wanted to say, apologize for being such an arse, bring their friendship back around to the place where they were pleasant with each other and pretended that John wasn’t drifting away from him. It was better than _this_ tension, anyway. But instead, the words caught on Sherlock’s tongue and somehow got twisted around, morphed into a combination of words he couldn’t remember ever saying to another person:

                “I love you.”

                John blinked at him, and Sherlock blinked back, both of them surprised at the admission. Then John’s face relaxed a little. “I know that, Sherlock. I love you, too.” He smiled again, softened back to his previous good mood.

                But that’s not what Sherlock wanted; John had misinterpreted. “No. No, I—I mean, I _love_ you.”

                Isn’t this what Major Sholto had advised him to do? Tell John the truth? Ever since their conversation, which had been all of one day ago, Sherlock had thought nonstop about it. About the possibility that he could, in fact, be “in love” with John Watson. “In love” was not something he’d ever felt before, not even remotely, so he was already at a disadvantage for not having anything to compare it to. And of course, the whole “sociopath” thing—that was a significant disadvantage as well. Could he ever be in love? Did he have the capacity for it?

                He spent half the night wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, Googling “what is love,” reading everything from blog posts to scholarly articles (ignoring the frequently appearing videos of an apparently popular song from the nineties), trying to get a handle on what it meant. There seemed to be quite a range of feelings encompassed in the understanding of that word, which was not at all helpful. It seemed to be quite subjective. Sherlock grit his teeth and dove deeper into the research.

                He was surprised and pleased to find that, while sex was a large component of love according to _some_ of the articles, it wasn’t always a _necessary_ component. There seemed to be two different things, love and lust, and though they often went hand-in-hand, they were not mutually exclusive. For example, he read that as married people aged and their sex drives diminished, the love they shared became one of friendship, deep bonding to the soul. “Sex fades away,” one writer said, “and what remains is true love.”

                One blogger wrote, “Love is caring about another person more than you care about yourself.” “Selflessness” seemed to be a common theme, as well as “compromise” and “teamwork.” Sherlock traced the outline of his lips on his steepled fingers, thinking about how those words might resonate with his and John’s relationship. He thought about all the times he’d considered John’s feeling above his own, and what came to mind were all of the times he’d put himself in danger to save John’s life. For the first time he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if John had died, if he hadn’t jumped off that building or dug through that bonfire or shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head (which, as much as he tried to convince everyone was for Mary, was really for John). He felt fear at the thought, imagining the funeral and then not being able to ring or text John whenever he wanted. He wondered if he would cry, _really_ cry. That was an unknown. Perhaps.

                And then, of course, there was the little fact that Sherlock had basically willed himself back to life after Mary had shot him, and all to protect John. If John hadn’t been a reason to live, would he have had one at all?

                He shivered, then, though he was warm in his blanket by the fire. He suddenly felt ill, closed his laptop and slid it across the floor like it was a poisonous thing.

                “I love you,” Sherlock whispered into the empty flat, trying the sound of it. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and closed his eyes, imagining saying it to John’s face. “I love you, John.” And then he felt a warmth in the center of his chest, a tickling sensation that spread out from its point of origin and reached the tips of his fingers and toes in no time.

                He opened his eyes.

                The most bizarre thing about it was seeing John at the hospital the next day. Sherlock had felt shy, of all things, something he hadn’t felt since he was a child. He was keenly aware of everything he said, wondering how it sounded, if John would know, if he would figure it out.

                The second most bizarre thing was the jealousy. It hit him like a slap in the face, or a punch in the gut, more like. It gripped him and squeezed, hot, flowing through all his veins, burning him from the inside. He supposed he’d been feeling it for a while, had just been ignoring it… but now....

                It happened when he saw John with Mary; John had initially met him in the waiting room to show him to Mary’s new room, out of the delivery wing. When they’d gotten to the room, John left Sherlock’s side and strode over to give Mary a kiss, touch her face affectionately, and oh, it _burned_. It wasn’t that he wanted John to do those things to _him_. No, that’s not what he wanted. He just didn’t want him to do those things to anyone _else_.

                John’s smile faded there, in the park, the reality of what Sherlock had said dawning on him. It had started to rain, but neither of them were paying attention.

                “You…”

                Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes.”

                “…love me?”

                Sherlock felt he needed to clarify. “Well, without the sex part.”

                John’s jaw dropped at that. He looked at Sherlock, terribly confused. “What?”

                Sherlock started to become annoyed. This wasn’t at all like what had happened in his head last night. “I’m in love with you,” he said, slowly, “but I don’t want to have sex with you.”

                “Oh, well, of course!” John exclaimed, with a wave of his hand, his voice suddenly dripping with sarcasm. “Glad you cleared that up for me.” He dropped the act, then, and shook his head in disbelief. “What the hell, Sherlock? What the _hell_? How do you… what am I supposed to say to that?”

                Upset. Angry. Confused. This was not going well at all. Sherlock mentally cursed Major Sholto for giving him absolutely shoddy advice. “Well, I didn’t think you’d react like _that_ _."_

                “Oh yeah? How am I supposed to react? My best friend just told me he’s in love with me, but, oh, by the way, ‘not the sex part’—what does that even _mean_? How can you be in love with someone without wanting to—“ John shook his head, apparently trying to get rid of some unwanted mental images. “That’s just… that’s just _platonic_ love, Sherlock. That’s loving someone as a friend. Which we already do… so I don’t even know why you felt the need to…” his train of thought dissolved into more head shaking. The rain was coming down harder, now.

                Sherlock thought about that for a second. Was John right? Was he getting all worked up about this for no reason? Was this indeed friend-love, the same thing John felt for him?

                No. This was different, somehow.

                “I…” Sherlock began. “I don’t…”

                “You want to know the difference?” John asked him, frustrated. “Here. I’ll show you the difference.” Suddenly John was closing the distance between them, marching over, was very close (very, very close), grabbed Sherlock’s face with both hands, pulled him down, and kissed him. 

                At first there was nothing but the slimy feeling of cold, rainy-wet lips on each other, the shock of someone in his personal space. But then, there was everything else: Sherlock felt his whole body respond to the kiss, narrowing down, wanting to force itself into the tiny spots where their lips touched; wanting to keep doing it, and more of it, and never stop doing it, and oh, _God_ , there was a jolt of electricity that shot down from his mouth directly to his—oh, oh _no_.

                John pulled back from him and Sherlock opened his eyes (hadn’t realized he’d closed them until that moment). John took a couple steps backward. “There,” he said, trying to sound forceful, but his voice was much too high-pitched and wavering.

                Sherlock stared at him through the rain. “There, _what_? What was that supposed to illustrate?”

                John formed various starts of words with his lips, unable to produce any sound to go with them. Sherlock kept watching him, waiting for an explanation. What had he been trying to show? Had he expected Sherlock not to feel aroused, to prove his love was platonic? Well, if that was the case, it had backfired abominably. _The sex part_ , Sherlock thought, unbelievably. _I want the sex part, too_.

                “You…” John finally started. “You didn’t feel anything, right?” The look on his face was unreadable, and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit.

                “Did _you_?”

                John blushed. Sherlock could see it through the rain, even, his face was _that_ red. “This isn’t about me.”

                “You did!” Sherlock accused, his eyes narrowing.

                “No!”

                “No?”

                “I don’t—“ John was clearly overwhelmed. “Look, Sherlock, it’s pouring out, and I—let’s go inside before we get drenched.”

                Sherlock stayed where he was. “We’re already drenched.”

                John rubbed his forehead in frustration. “What do you want me to say?  _I’m_ not gay, and _you_ don’t want to… why the hell are we even having this discussion?”

                “I don’t even know what we’re discussing anymore!"

                “Neither do I!”

                The two of them stared at each other. “I’m going back inside,” John told him, finally, and without another word turned on his heel and marched off toward the hospital, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the rain.


	2. The Bath

                Sherlock ended up walking home. He didn’t plan on doing it, but somehow he ended up there. He couldn’t go back into the hospital, didn’t want to see John, so instead he started down the street in the rain and kept on until he found himself standing at the front door to 221B.

                Upon entering, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her rooms and came out to greet him. “Sherlock, there was a strange man here earlier, looking for you, he was quite rude, wanted me to—”

                “Not now, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock seethed, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door behind him.

                Once in the flat, Sherlock relaxed a little. He unbuttoned his coat to take it off and hang it up, and ended up dripping water all over the floor. He groaned, unhappy—it was going to take forever to dry.

                Then he realized he was shivering, freezing cold— _bath_. The sounded nice, sounded perfect right now. He stripped off his wet clothes on the way to the loo, leaving them in piles on the floor (Mrs. Hudson would pick them up later and scold him, but sod it). He sat on the edge of the tub as he ran the faucet, naked and goose-fleshed, thinking of nothing but getting warm.

                Once he’d lowered himself into the water and laid his head back on the towel, he began to digest the recent turn of events.

                Fact #1: He was in love with John Watson.

                Fact #2: He wanted the sex part, too.

                Fact #3: John had felt… something, too, when they’d kissed.

                That “something” didn’t have a definition, yet, but it was powerful, strong enough to make John upset. Was it sexual? It had to be, to trigger the “I’m not gay” remark—which, by the way, was complete bollocks and had been ever since John had first uttered the words in the warehouse with The Woman. Sherlock was surprised at the level of denial that had prevailed over the years after that first lie. He wondered what had happened in John’s past to make him so afraid to admit that he liked men, too.

                John’s bisexuality had been obvious when Sherlock met him all those years ago. If it hadn’t been evident in the way he looked at Sherlock in the chemistry lab at St. Bart’s ( _majorly_ checking him out), it was definitely clear in the way he propositioned him at Angelo’s, not late after. “It’s all fine,” he’d said. _Jesus_ , was John so blind to himself that he couldn’t even hear his own admission in those words?

                Sherlock scooped up some of the bath in his hands and lifted it above the waterline, letting it trickle through his fingers and back into the tub. He supposed John’s denial was not unlike his own denial of himself as a sexual being. He sighed, readjusting his head on the towel and staring at the ceiling.

                Sex was messy. It got into people’s heads, turned them crazy, caused them to react based on emotions and sensations, not logic. Sherlock had decided at a young age that sex was not going to be a part of his life—he had no room for the complications it brought on. It was about the time he went to university; he had been feeling pressure to lose his virginity, get it out of the way, and hated every second of the worry and work and planning that he was putting into it. So he just decided to drop it all together, let it go, resign himself to a sexless life. He’d immediately felt better after making that decision; his body relaxed, his mind cleared. He’d focus on his studies, sharpening his intellect—wouldn’t have to make room for love and sex.

                An unexpected side effect of him deleting sexual desire, however, was that he began to look down on anyone who gave into that desire—which was pretty much everyone, especially at uni. He _did_ used to sit at the breakfast table and call out anyone who had slept with anyone else, embarrassing them on purpose, disgust in his voice, the _weakness_ of it!

                But this thing he felt for John… was it really weakness?

                Sherlock closed his eyes, then, trying to float back to the park and back into the kiss, the feeling of John’s hands on his face, their lips against each other’s, his eyes closed… were John’s eyes closed, too? That would be telling, if they had been. _Let’s just pretend_ , Sherlock thought. _Let’s pretend they were_. And pretend that John hadn’t pulled away so soon, that he’d kissed back again. Pretend they’d gotten hungrier for it, John threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock sliding his arms around John’s waist, their lips parting to touch tongues, just a bit—

                Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he immediately glanced down to his crotch, where he’d felt the beginnings of an erection forming. He started to panic, uncomfortable with the whole thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t get an erection now and then, it was that he hadn’t gotten one for _sexual_ reasons since… well, since he was a teenager.

 _Out. I must get out of the bath._ He needed to get out of the warmth, abscond his nakedness, and distract his mind with something else. He sat up and unplugged the drain, then stood to reach for a towel.

_Knock, knock, knock._

                Sherlock froze, water dripping off his alabaster skin, his cock half hard and bouncing in the air. _Was that the front door?_

 _Knock knock knock knock._ “Sherlock?”

                It was John.

                Unfortunately, instead of scaring the erection away, the thought of John at the door made it worse—gave him a full-blown hard-on. “Bugger,” Sherlock swore.

                “Sherlock, I’m coming in.”

                Damn it, why didn’t he ever lock the door? Sherlock splashed out of the bath and grabbed his dressing gown, folding it around himself and glancing in the mirror. _Fuck_. No good. His penis strained against the thin fabric, and nothing was going to hide it. He wouldn’t keep himself locked in the bathroom while John tried to talk to him through the door, like some goddamn angst-ridden teenager—

                “Sherlock? Where are you?” He heard John’s footsteps in the living room, then in the kitchen…“Oh, you’re in the loo. I’ll just wait out here." 

              Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay,” he called, trying to calm himself. He stared down at his crotch. “Go away,” he muttered. He waited for thirty seconds, trying to take his mind off it. Then a minute. Then two minutes. Then three minutes. He began to grow frustrated.

                “Sherlock?” John’s voice, again.

                Come on. Think fast. _How can I get this thing to_ … he looked around, trying to think of something. The sink, cold  water? Would that work? Sherlock turned on the cold tap and let it run for a moment, and then, without much other thought, leaked over to put his penis in the stream.

                “Yow!” he yelped, hopping back. That was bloody _cold!_

                “Are you alright?” John’s footsteps coming closer.

                “Fine!”

                “What are you doing in there?”

                “Just… just in the bath.”

                “Oh,” said John. “Well, can I come in?” He began to open the door. It wouldn’t have been the first time John had spoken to him in the bath, they had often consulted on cases like that—Sherlock was convinced that the hot water opened his capillaries, increased blood flow to the brain and allowed him to think better.

                “No!” Sherlock exclaimed, hopping forward to shut the door again.

                On the other side, John froze. “You’re not in the bath, Sherlock,” he said, his voice growing cold. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, I’ll just go—“

                “No, it’s not—“ Sherlock sighed and let his head thump against the door in defeat. “I have an erection.”

                John was completely silent for a moment, then began to laugh. Sherlock supposed it was because he’d sounded so pathetic. “Oh, shut up,” he spat.

                “I’m sorry,” said John, catching his breath. “Sherlock, it’s just so—“ he laughed again. “Inappropriate. Or, _too_ appropriate. Ironic.” He chuckled. “Do you need to… you know… take care of it?”

                “Take care of it?”

                Sherlock could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You know… masturbate.”

                Sherlock was aghast. “Of course not! I’m not—I don’t—Of course not!”

                “Alright, okay,” John conceded. “I know, how dare I suggest you do something _normal_.”

                “No, it’s—“ Sherlock took a deep breath. “I just don’t ever find myself in this situation. I haven’t done… that… since I was seventeen years old.”

                “What?” John’s outrage was palpable. “Sherlock, that’s not healthy!”

                “It’s perfectly fine,” Sherlock retorted. “I’ve read up on it.” That was a lie, he’d done no such thing, but he wasn’t going to admit that John knew something he didn’t.

                John ignored him. “Sherlock, you need to masturbate. This I’m telling you as a doctor, not as your friend or—or—well, you just need to. It’s essential for testicular health.”

                Sherlock blanched. “I’d prefer we didn’t discuss my testicles, thank you.”

                John sighed deeply. “Fine. That’s not what I came to talk about, anyway.”

                “I know,” Sherlock muttered.

                “Why don’t I go visit Mrs. Hudson while you… do whatever it is you’re going to do, and you can come get me when you’re ready to talk.”

                “Actually,” said Sherlock, looking down, “it’s okay now. I’ll just need to get some clothes on.”

                “I’ll bring you some,” offered John, and Sherlock heard him go into his bedroom, pull open and close two dresser drawers, and come back to the bathroom door. Sherlock smiled to himself; John still remembered exactly how he organized his clothes. “Here, open.” Sherlock stood behind the door and opened it a little, and John thrust some pajama bottoms, pants, and a t-shirt in through the crack.

                After Sherlock was dressed, he came out of the loo to find John making tea in the kitchen. “Would you like a cuppa?” he asked, without turning around. “I’m still bloody freezing from standing out in the rain.”

                “You did change clothes, though,” Sherlock remarked. “Should have had a hot bath, like me.”

                “Oh, so you _did_ have a bath?”

                “Of course I did. That’s how the whole thing came about!”

                John chuckled. “Increased blood flow, eh?” he teased, turning around with two cups of tea in his hands. His smile faded, though, as he looked at Sherlock standing there in front of him.

                “What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously.

                John swallowed and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he handed Sherlock his cup. “Here.” Sherlock took it from him, and their fingers brushed as they transferred it between hands. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch at the contact. He swallowed and put the cup to his lips.

                John, meanwhile, walked all the way to the farthest corner of the kitchen and leaned against the countertop. _Perhaps he feels awkward standing next to me after what happened in the park_ … Sherlock grew uncomfortable, all of a sudden. He stared into his cup before setting it on the kitchen table. “John…”

                He heard movement in front of him and looked up just in time to see John crossing the room toward him and pulling him into another kiss.

                Somehow, this one surprised him more than the first. He kept his eyes open to watch it: John’s were closed, his eyelids fluttering a little. He felt John’s hand resting on the back of his neck, palm just below his jaw line. His fingers pressed into Sherlock’s skin gently as he deepened the kiss. At that, Sherlock closed his eyes, too.

                John pulled away and looked down at Sherlock’s chest.

                “John—“ Sherlock began.

                “Don’t,” interrupted John, not looking up. He shook his head a little. “Just… don’t say anything. Please. For a moment.”

                Sherlock nodded in agreement, and John tilted his head up to resume kissing him.

                They stood in the kitchen snogging for… well, Sherlock didn’t know how long, but not too much longer, before he felt his groin stiffen again. He broke away and took a couple steps back, leaving John blinking at the empty space between them.

                “I…” he began, trying to find the words to explain what he was going through in that moment. He glanced down and could see a faint bulge in his pajama bottoms.

                John’s eyes followed his line of sight, then snapped back to Sherlock’s face as he understood. “Sherlock, it’s okay,” he said, his expression softening. “It’s perfectly—“

                “Don’t say ‘normal,’” Sherlock warned, surprised at how cold his voice sounded. “Don’t. I may not be an expert when it comes to things of this nature, but whatever is going on here… it’s not normal. Not for me.”

                “You’re the one who said you loved me,” John accused, his lips growing thin. “Don’t blame this on me.”

                Sherlock just stared at him, trying to figure out how to handle the situation.

                “You _do_ realize that I’ve a wife and family,” John said, sharply. “You do realize what I’m risking to be here. This isn’t _normal_ for me, either; far from it.” He almost looked scared. He did actually; he looked incredibly frightened. “I am… I’m feeling things, today, that I didn’t even know I was capable of.”

 _Likewise_ , Sherlock wanted to say. He felt anxiety boil up into his throat. “I think this may have been a mistake,” he whispered.

                John looked up at him. “But don’t you want to find out for sure?”

                Sherlock thought about Major Sholto, living away in isolation, lonely, regretting his life, regretting not knowing. That’s why he told Sherlock to say something, because the not knowing… that was the worst part.

                Sherlock brought both his hands to John’s face and crushed their lips together again.

                John immediately responded, leaning forward to press their bodies together, backing Sherlock up against the refrigerator. Magnets fell off and clattered to the ground beneath their feet, jars of God only knew what rattling on top. Sherlock was trying to figure out the best place for his hands, didn’t know where to touch, or grab—tried the shoulders, the biceps, the chest, the back, hands sliding over John’s body, feeling for a good place to go. For the first time in almost twenty years, Sherlock regretted not having any experience with this sort of thing.

                John’s hands knew what to do, though. His touch was firm, but smooth, sliding over Sherlock’s shoulders, down his sides, underneath his t-shirt to the skin on his waist.

                “Arms up,” John breathed, and Sherlock’s hands shot into the air. In one swift motion John lifted his shirt over his arms and tossed it onto the floor. Sherlock momentarily lamented wasting a clean shirt on five minutes of wear—but then he was distracted again by John’s mouth on his, hungrier than ever.

 _Perhaps I should take his shirt off, too?_ Sherlock thought, again cursing himself for not knowing the proper sex etiquette. He tentatively wrinkled John’s shirt up to his chest and held it there for a while as they continued to snog, until John grabbed it and took it off himself.

                When their bare chests touched, something happened to Sherlock’s brain. His logical mind faltered and fell into the grip of something primal and instinctual, instead. He’d never felt anything like it.

 _Enough of this kissing_ , he thought.

                Sherlock pushed himself away from the fridge and steered John backward into a wall, trapping John’s hips against said wall with his own. He could feel John’s erection, stiff and hard against his own, and suddenly he wanted John’s hand down his pants—wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.

                “Touch me,” Sherlock ordered, and felt John startle beneath him. “Come on, doctor,” he growled, his own voice unrecognizable to him, “show me what’s good for my health.”

                John’s hand immediately grabbed his crotch, and Sherlock let out a guttural sound, a wordless admission of pleasure, as his head collapsed into the crook of John’s neck. “You’re full of it,” John said, thickly, recovered from his shock. “I bet you touch yourself all the time.” His hand rubbed Sherlock’s prick through the fabric of his pajama bottoms.

                “No,” Sherlock choked out, but it was all he could manage; his previously confident, dirty-talking attitude had vanished completely.

                “Yes, you do,” John muttered into his ear. “You’ve only said it to make me harder.”

                Sherlock felt a shiver down his spine. “No,” he said again, into the skin of John’s neck. God, this couldn’t possibly feel this amazing, something had to be—

                “Well, it’s working,” John told him, and with that, guided Sherlock’s dangling palm to the bulge in his trousers. Sherlock had never touched another person like this, not ever. In that moment he realized that there was something more to his celibate life than not wanting to be impaired by emotions; he was also afraid that no one would _want_ him.

                But John did.

                Sherlock pulled back from John’s shoulder and looked him full in the face. John’s eyes were glassy, half lidded, his lips swollen and a pleasant flush on his cheeks and neck. His mouth was open, breath coming in and out heavily. He was gorgeously aroused, and he wanted Sherlock to…

                “Tell me what to do,” Sherlock said, abruptly. “I haven’t done this before, to someone else. And not to myself in twenty years.”

                John’s gruff demeanor faded and his features grew softer. “Give me your hand,” he instructed.

                Sherlock did so, keeping his gaze locked on John’s. John, meanwhile, undid his own belt buckle and unzipped his fly. Then, still without breaking eye contact, he guided Sherlock’s hand down his pants and around his swollen cock.

                “Oh,” he breathed, and closed his eyes.

                John only had to give a few more instructions and Sherlock was pumping away, wanking him like a pro. “God, your fingers,” John moaned, as Sherlock experimented rubbing the underside of his thumb across the head of John’s prick every time he stroked up. He was so mesmerized by John’s reactions to his stimulation that he forgot about his own arousal for a moment—only a moment, though, until John suddenly thrust his own hand under the layered elastic of Sherlock’s pajamas and pants.

                It didn’t take long after that, only a few quick strokes and Sherlock was coming, with wordless groans. John was not far behind, swearing “ _Oh fuck oh fuck oh_ —“ and then chanting Sherlock’s name as he rode out his orgasm under Sherlock’s grip.

                When it was over, they stayed against the wall, their foreheads pressed to one another’s, panting, coming back to themselves.

                “Fuck,” John said.


	3. The Bedroom

                They were in trouble.

 _A lovely, blissful, decadent trouble_ , Sherlock thought, stretched out on his bed, a spent John catching his breath next to him. It was the sixth time in two weeks that they’d been together ( _together_ , together), and it had started off with John telling him they needed to end things.

                “Sherlock, this isn’t right,” he’d said, not meeting his eyes as he stood in the living room on another rainy afternoon. “We can’t keep doing this, it’s turning into a… a _thing_ , and it’s not fair to Mary, you know, and I can’t keep coming here, especially when I have a brand-new baby at home…”

                Sherlock had slowly moved closer to him, not saying a word, had gotten close enough to see his breath make John’s hair flutter, and then had reached up to take off John’s coat.

                John attempted to ignore him. “I—“ he started again, blinking rapidly, trying to keep his thoughts coherent. “I’m not a cheater, Sherlock, I’m not. I feel terrible about this. I married her, you know, I made a… a vow…”

                Sherlock wrenched the coat off John’s shoulders and dropped it on the floor with a flourish of fingers. He cocked his head to one side, considering how to proceed. Then he began to work on John’s shirt buttons. John kept talking, but he didn’t try to stop him.

                “Sherlock… this was a mistake.” His voice was more forceful now. “We shouldn’t have started this in the first place, I see that now, and I take full responsibility, it was completely my fault—“

                Sherlock finished with the buttons and lowered his hands to John’s belt buckle.

                “I—I don’t—Sher—I can’t—I _can’t_ —“

                Sherlock dropped into a squat, taking John’s trousers and pants down with him in a loud _whoosh_ of fabric. He eyed John’s cock, already fully erect and bobbing out from his body.

                “I thought we’d try something new today,” Sherlock said, and without further adieu, took John into his mouth.

                “Jesus Christ almighty,” John hissed. Sherlock ran his tongue under the full length of John’s shaft, swirling it around the head. “Oh fucking _fuck_ ,” he swore. “God, how the hell did you learn to—oh, _God_.”

_From watching porn for three hours straight and practicing on a half-peeled banana, that’s how._

                Before long, John’s swearing became incoherent noise and his hands had made their way into Sherlock’s hair, winding through his curls. Sherlock stopped and looked up. “Bedroom,” he commanded. “Now.”

                John gaped at him for a second, then nearly tripped over his trousers before grabbing them up off his ankles and scuttling to the bedroom. Sherlock followed a few paces behind, slamming the door once they were inside, pushing John back on the bed and stripping his trousers the rest of the way off his legs. Then he climbed on top of him, putting one of his knees between John’s and the other on the side, kissing him messily. That was something he’d learned quickly: John liked those sloppy, wet kisses, the sucking of lips and tongues roaming over each other. Sherlock didn’t mind it like that, but he much preferred the controlled, subtle kind. However… he wasn’t the one being seduced right now, was he?

                Sherlock had discovered that, like most other things he tried, he was very good at sex. He learned quickly what John liked and was not afraid to experiment with new techniques. His hands were deft, from playing violin all those years, and soon he had begun to play John’s body in much the same way. And John was not shy about praising him (which was nothing new, to be sure), and Sherlock was made more confident for the positive feedback.

                John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s shirt collar as they broke their kiss. “Your shirts are too fucking tight,” he growled. He wound the fabric around his fists and pulled in opposite directions, so that the top three buttons came flying off. Sherlock felt anger pulse through his body at the ruined shirt, but channeled it into desire. This was a new game they’d begun to play, the “angry sex” game; using anger as an erotic stimulant. Sherlock suspected it was a long-standing fantasy of John’s that Mary didn’t comply with. But it was working for them both, so far.

                Sherlock grabbed the top of John’s hair and tugged him back on the bed. “I didn’t like that shirt, anyway,” he seethed, as John pretended to fight his grip. Sherlock held him fast and tutted. “Now, now, quit fussing. You do want me to go back to that _thing_ I was doing earlier, don’t you?”

                John stopped struggling and glared at him through lustful eyes.

                “That’s better,” said Sherlock, smirking devilishly. This was another game they played, the game of dominance. Sherlock was always better at that one. John liked to be dominated, he always had, even in the non-sexual portion of their relationship. He loved following Sherlock’s lead.

                Sherlock gave John’s hair another pull for good measure and then let go, repositioning himself with his knees on the ground and his mouth less than an inch away from John’s erection. “Now,” he breathed, and his lips brushed the head of John’s prick as he spoke, making John shiver underneath him. “What were you saying before? Something about this ‘thing’we’re doing?” Sherlock dipped his head and licked John all the way from base to tip.

                John groaned with pleasure.

                “Well, that certainly wasn’t the impression I got when you first walked in the door.” Sherlock licked him again. “Have you changed your mind?” He put his lips over the head and sucked lightly. “Hmmm?” he asked again, taking John deeper into his mouth and using the vibrations from his voice as extra stimulation. “Which way is it, John?” he asked, letting John’s cock fall out and onto his abdomen. “Do you want me to stop, or keep sucking you off?”

                “I—ugh,” John gurgled. His chest had broken out in a blotchy flush.

                “Come on, John, _say it_ ,” Sherlock growled, grabbing John’s cock with one hand and poising his mouth over top of it. “Say you want me to suck you.”

                “ _Suck me_ ,” John gasped, sounding incredibly tortured.

                Sherlock complied, with a smile of satisfaction… and relief.

                The truth was, Sherlock was frightened that John _would_ tell him to stop. Now that they’d started this “thing,” whatever it was, Sherlock couldn’t imagine it ending. It had only been two weeks, but he didn’t think they could go back to whatever they’d been before. Their relationship had been suffering, anyway, ever since Sherlock returned from his two years away, so to end this thing—it would end _every_ thing. Sherlock was sure of it. Thank God he’d chosen last night to learn about blowjobs; it was the perfect time to step up his game, since John had come in today with second thoughts. He would just have to keep upping the ante.

                He was also extremely lucky that Mary was not giving John an iota of sex right now and had not been for the last several months of her pregnancy. John hadn’t told him this, of course, but he’d been observing it for some time; casually, as in, “Oh look, John’s not getting any. I wonder if it will rain today?” But now that little fact was playing to his advantage, immensely useful in keeping John interested in him.

                John came, suddenly, and Sherlock was distracted from his train of thought by the feeling of semen hitting the back of his throat. He swallowed a few times, trying not to taste it (he’d been prepared, had tasted his own the night before as an experiment), then crawled up on the bed next to John and stared at him. John’s chest was heaving and his eyes were still closed in ecstasy. God, he was gorgeous like this, reduced to a state of complete exhaustion from physical pleasure—and all due to Sherlock’s prowess.

                Sherlock felt his own cock begin to ache with desire, but felt something else, too—that same tingling heat that had started in his chest and spread throughout his whole body on the night he realized he loved John Watson. He felt the urge to coerce John into making ridiculous promises: “Promise we’ll never stop doing this,” “Promise you won’t leave me,” “Promise you’ll love me forever.” John was pumped full of enough endorphins right now that he just might actually make them, which would prove even more devastating later on when he’d break them. _That’s why you never make a vow_. _You’ll always break it, and then you’re a liar_.

 _I promised to never make you promise_ , Sherlock thought, staring as John opened his eyes and turned to look at him.

                But he’d be a fool to make that promise, too.

                “Lie down,” John commanded, his eyes suddenly fiery. Sherlock smirked with pleasure as he did so, watching John sit up and straddle him, still naked, and reach down for his belt. He fumbled with it for a second before undoing it and pulling it roughly out of Sherlock’s belt loops, tossing it behind him. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them down as he slid off Sherlock’s lap and onto the floor.

                “I suppose you owe me,” Sherlock said, still smirking.

                John looked up at him over the tent in his pants. “Ah, so you only did that for the reciprocation? Well,” he said, standing up, “that makes me not want to do it after all.” His eyes twinkled.

                “You won’t make me beg,” Sherlock told him, staring him down with his ice-blue eyes.

                “Won’t I?”

                With that, John hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and tugged them off, making his cock fall back on his stomach with a _smack_. He knelt down again and slid his hands up Sherlock’s inner thighs, planting kisses and licks along them after. Sherlock would have closed his eyes to further enjoy the sensations if he wasn’t so fascinated with John’s technique.

                “You see, you think you’re better at sex than me,” John murmured, moving one hand to cup Sherlock’s bum and the other to grasp the base of Sherlock’s erection, “but you’ve forgotten that I’ve been having sex for a lot longer than you.”

                “With women,” Sherlock grunted, trying to sound indifferent to what was happening below his waist. His body had begun to tremble, though, from excitement. _Weak_ , Sherlock scolded it.

                “ _Mostly_ women,” John amended, with a small smile.

                Sherlock froze, surprised. “What?”

                John ignored him, looking incredibly amused. “And you’ve forgotten something else, too.”

                Sherlock blinked, bewildered still. “What’s that?”

                “I’m a bloody doctor, Sherlock. I know everything there is to know about the human body.” He began to move his hand over Sherlock’s cock. “I know about every pleasure center, every sensitive spot. And I know exactly where to find them.” And with that, John gently took one of Sherlock’s balls in his mouth.

                Sherlock gasped, twisting his body, twitching with the unexpected sensation. _Why didn’t I think of that?_ he thought to himself, before he was too distracted by physical pleasure to care.

                John paid special attention to both of his balls, continuously working his hand on Sherlock’s shaft, slowly, sensually. Controlled. The way Sherlock liked it.

_Oh, he’s good._

                Suddenly, John placed his tongue and the base of Sherlock’s prick and gave it a firm lick all the way up to the very tip. Sherlock moaned before he could stop himself, and then he knew that John had won.

                John stared at him intently, still smiling a little, still looking a little too pleased with himself. “Say ‘please,’ Sherlock. That’s all you have to do.” He studied the tip of Sherlock’s erection, where a bit of precum had surfaced. He used the pad of his thumb to smear it around. Sherlock writhed and moaned again, marveling at how John could turn him into putty beneath his hands—it was wonderful and annoying and frightening, all at the same time.

                “Please,” whispered Sherlock.


	4. The Café

                Sherlock sat in the café across the street, just next to the window, peering out into the bright, sunny day. It was late spring, that time of year when there were a wide range of outfits being worn by weather-confused Londoners. Some still had on long overcoats and hats, some wore light windbreakers. And then there was the occasional woman who was _too_ ready for summer, in a skimpy dress that was clearly not warm enough by the way she was hunched-over walking, her pale skin and holiday weight clashing horribly with the garment. Sherlock watched a man in a thick jumper and jeans eye one of those women as she trotted past, her arms crossed in an attempt to keep warm. His phone buzzed with a text alert.

_You coming?_

                It was from John, half an hour after Sherlock was supposed to meet him and Mary and the baby for a visit. Sherlock looked out the window again, across to where John’s front door stood blandly among the others in the row. Sherlock had been on time for the visit, but had decided the moment he got out of the cab that he needed a coffee. A half hour had passed, the coffee was long gone, and Sherlock couldn’t think up another excuse to cover the fact that he was stalling.

                _Had a case—on my way now. SH_

There, that would buy him a few more minutes to mentally prepare himself to see John with Mary. He hadn’t seen them together since that day at the hospital, before their affair had started. (Both he and John were reluctant to call it an “affair,” but they could find no other suitable name for it.) And that had been nearly two months ago.

                _Well hurry up. Your brother is here._

Sherlock blinked at the screen. Mycroft? What the devil was Mycroft doing there? True, Sherlock had been avoiding his repeated texts for the last few weeks, but coming to John and Mary’s to track him down? There was a baby there. Mycroft hated babies.

                Sherlock stood and strutted across the street to John’s front door. He rang the bell.

                John answered, a little frantic. “It’s about damn time!” he grumbled, standing back so that Sherlock could come inside.

                It was strange, seeing John in this setting. Whenever he’d seen him over the last two months it was always at 221B, and John always greeted him with a kiss. But they couldn’t kiss here. “Good afternoon to you, too,” Sherlock drawled, upset. John gave him a warning look.

                “And _there_ is that brother of mine.” Mycroft smiled thinly and smugly, the way he was want to do. “Your tardiness is not appreciated, dear brother. Been a little thirsty, have we?” He continued to smirked.

                “I was on a case,” Sherlock lied, and Mycroft’s smirk grew. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He stood at the room’s entrance, staring down at his brother in the wingback chair next to the hearth.

                Mycroft crossed his legs. “Well, now, can I not come and visit the new family, wish them congratulations?”

                “No,” said Sherlock, bluntly. “You hate babies.”

                Mycroft’s smile soured. “Nonsense. No one hates babies.”

                “…more than you.”

                “Oh Sherlock, leave him alone.” It was Mary, entering the room from the kitchen and holding a bottle of milk over a bundle of blankets. She looked worn, her skin was sallow, but she was smiling and her eyes were shining with happiness. Sherlock felt himself smile back at her. He’d forgotten that she was a person, not just John’s wife. He’d forgotten he actually _liked_ her.

                “Mary. You’re looking lovely.”

                “Oh, now, don’t lie,” she scolded him. “I know I look a fright, but I don’t care that much. Actually, I don’t care at all.” She gazed fondly at the baby, who stared back up at her as she gulped her dinner from the bottle. “ _She_ doesn’t know I look a fright.” Mary sighed and looked back at Sherlock. “You want to feed her?”

                Sherlock immediately panicked. “I, erm…”

                Mary winked at him. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m joking. Don’t look so scared. Do you think I would give this baby away right now? Just look at her, the angel. Feeding her is my favorite time of day.”

                “Well,” John piped up, “that’s probably because it’s the only time of day she’s not screaming her head off.”

                Mary rolled her eyes. “That’s not true. There are plenty of other times when she’s perfectly content. You’d know that if you were around more often.” She eyed him, and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. Mycroft’s smirk, meanwhile, grew impossibly wider.

                Mary turned back to Sherlock. “Speaking of, how is this case going? You two have been spending so much time on it, and John won’t tell me a thing.”

                Three pairs of eyes stared at him. “Well, it’s…” Sherlock was taken by surprise—he didn’t know John had told her they were working on a case. They should have discussed it ahead of time, come up with a story. “It’s a secret,” he finished, tentatively. “Top… secret.”

                Mycroft’s eyebrows attempted to reach the ceiling; Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever seen him look so amused. “And why haven’t I heard of this? Surely, if it was so _top secret_ ,” he over-annunciated the words, “I might have been involved.”

                All eyes shifted back to Sherlock. “That’s because it’s… erm… foreign. We’re solving it for a foreign government, and don’t ask me which one, I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Sherlock finished dismissively.

                “Really, Mycroft,” John added, “we can’t talk about it. And it’s really none of your business.”

                “Now, now, let’s not all start bickering again,” Mary reprimanded, adjusting the baby in her arms. She’d fallen asleep halfway through her meal. “Just tell me, are you anywhere near close to solving it? It’s just been taking up so much of John’s time… We miss him around here.” She didn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eyes.

                Sherlock swallowed. “I believe we’ve got a good angle on it. Should be wrapping up soon.” He couldn’t bear to say anything else to her.

                Mary smiled at him. “Good.”

                Mycroft and Sherlock stayed for a half hour more, then left at the same time (to Sherlock’s annoyance). When the goodbyes were given and doors were closed, Mycroft said something Sherlock had never heard him say:

                “Fancy a stroll?”

                Sherlock eyed him. “You mean, physically walking somewhere with no destination in mind?”

                Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No destination, but certainly a _purpose_ : to speak with my baby brother about what’s going on in his life.”

                Sherlock snorted. “We can do _that_ through text message.” He made his voice excruciatingly high-pitched: “’How are you, Sherlock?’ ‘Fine. You?’ ‘Still an insufferable prat.’”

                Mycroft glared at him. “I _would_ have done that if you’d responded to any of my text messages in the last three weeks. Why do you think I’m here today? I _detest_ babies.” Mycroft stuck his nose in the air.

                Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “Told you.”

                Mycroft turned and started down the pavement. “Walk with me,” he called out behind him. Sherlock stared after him for a second, his tall, awkwardly-shaped silhouette bobbing down the path, frivolously swinging its umbrella. He shook his head and sighed, following him with a little jump to catch up.

                They’d turned the corner before Mycroft said anything more. “I know about you and John,” he announced, when they had done.

                Sherlock snorted again. “You don’t know anything.”

                “Yes, I do. This is very serious, Sherlock.”

                “Oh yeah? Is that why you were smirking like an idiot and attempting to get us caught?”

                Mycroft sighed. “I had my fun, but now it’s time for me to be the responsible one. As always. This is not a game, dear brother.”

                Sherlock’s lips twisted. “ _Life_ is a game.”

                “No,” Mycroft retorted, suddenly stern, and stopped to grab Sherlock’s forearm. “It’s not.”

                “Get _off_!” Sherlock growled, wrenching his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp. “What the hell are you playing at?” Mycroft never debased himself to physical violence. That was Sherlock’s thing.

                “I’m trying to _help_ you,” Mycroft told him, smoothing his hair and adjusting his coat. “You are so naïve, Sherlock (and don’t become cross, you _are_ ), if you think that your affair with John Watson isn’t going to ruin people’s lives.”

                “People,” Sherlock scoffed, brushing off his coat where Mycroft had touched him. “Since when do I care about people?”

                Mycroft sighed for a second time. “Sherlock, you cannot live in both worlds, now. You’re either a sociopath, or you’re in love with John. You can’t be both. And,” he added, “it’s not just _other_ people. You’ll ruin your own life, as well.”

                Sherlock thrust his hands into his pockets and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “I know what I’m doing, Mycroft.”

                Mycroft looked at him, almost sadly. “Sherlock, you do not. You are so far from knowing, it’s almost physically painful to regard.” He cleared his throat. “I know that this is new for you, to love someone. And it feels like a fantasy, like nothing will go wrong. But Sherlock, John is _married_. And he has a child. You’re not only jeopardizing his future, but the future of that baby… detestable as she is.”

                Sherlock clenched his teeth together. “I do not need a lecture from you, Mycroft. I really don’t think you have the necessary expertise on the subject, anyway.”

                Mycroft opened his mouth.

                “This conversation is over,” Sherlock told him, his hand raised in the air. And with that, Sherlock stepped off the curb to hail a taxi, leaving Mycroft looking concerned and quite unsettled. He rode away from the scene without another look back.


	5. The Fountain

                The second time John tried to break up with him, he’d chosen a public place. Sherlock realized (with a brief feeling of self-satisfaction) that John had been worried about being physically distracted again. Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn’t deduced that—nor the fact that John had brought him there to end things—until it was already happening.

                It was by one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, some random memorial for some long-dead historical person; Sherlock didn’t really know or have any interest in finding out who. He’d thought, by his and John’s text message conversation three days before, that they’d come here to roll-play. He was very excited; he’d gotten a disguise and everything, researched his character, developed an accent—American tourist, lost in the heart of London, needed someone to help him find his way home.

                Against every single one of his rules regarding male fashion, Sherlock put on jeans. He’d purchased them online (wouldn’t dare risk getting caught buying them in a shop), and when Mrs. Hudson signed for the package, she’d tottered up the stairs in bewilderment and held it out for Sherlock to see. “Did you buy something from… _Levi’s_?”

                There it was, a great big LEVI’S logo printed across the front. Sherlock snatched the package out of her hands. “No,” he told her, tucking it under his arm. Then, “Don’t you have biscuits to make?”

                Mrs. Hudson blinked at him. “I just made you a plate this morning.”

                “Yes, well, they’re all gone now,” Sherlock told her, pushing her out the door. “And I’ve got company coming later, I’ll need them.”

                “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson scolded, before he slammed the door in her face. “You didn’t really eat _all_ those—“

                _SLAM._

                Sherlock had also put on one of John’s shirts that he’d left in the flat on accident, checked, a little looser fitting than what he’d normally wear. He looked at himself in the mirror, smirking. He looked very American. And _very_ straight.

                Sherlock was already standing near the fountain, staring up into it with mock interest, when John approached from the other side. Sherlock spotted him, then pulled out a map and went up to the nearest person he could find. “Excuse me,” he said loudly, in his best American accent, “can you tell me where I am?” He glanced at John out the corner of his eye, but John didn’t seem to have noticed him.

                “Of course, you’re at the intersection of—“ the friendly, forgettable pedestrian began, when Sherlock suddenly grabbed the map back and hastily gave a “thanks” as he moved to the two young women standing a few feet from John.

                “Excuse me,” Sherlock went up to them. One of them smiled at him, and he caught her eye. Behind her, John finally saw him and did a double-take; Sherlock smiled inwardly. “Hi, sorry to bother you… I’m on hol—on vacation, and I’m just not sure how to get back to my hotel.” He scratched his head.

                The woman’s smile grew, and her friend giggled annoyingly. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

                John’s mouth had fallen open a bit, looking at them, while the young lady gave Sherlock directions and her friend kept giggling like a schoolgirl. When she was finished, Sherlock eyed John behind her. _Now would be a good time to step in_ , Sherlock thought, _say something like,_ _“I know where that is, I’ll walk with you—going that way anyway—“_ but John continued to mouth-breathe and goggle stupidly.

                “Thank you _so_ much!” Sherlock said to the woman, a little over-enthusiastically, and she smiled again.

                “You’re welcome. Good luck!” She walked off, her friend hanging onto her arm and whispering in her ear.

                Sherlock eyed John once more, then held out his map, turning it around and upside down. “So, left here, then right in two… or three? Did she say three blocks?” He frowned. “Shit.”

                “Are you wearing jeans?” John asked, flabbergasted.

                Sherlock threw him a look of annoyance before falling back into character. He looked down. “Yes, I am. Levi’s. That’s the only brand I wear.” Sherlock flashed him a shy smile.

                “And why the hell are you talking like that… are we on a case?” John looked around, suddenly paranoid.

                Sherlock dropped the act with a disappointed huff. “No, John, we’re _roll_ -playing,” he growled, impatiently.

                John’s mouth fell open again. “What? Since when?”

                “Since you texted me and asked me to!” Sherlock was growing annoyed, bordering on embarrassed.

                “What?”

                Sherlock let the map fall to his side with his hand. “You said, ‘Let’s meet somewhere this time.’”

                John blinked at him. “Yeah…”

                “And two weeks ago, you told me you’ve always wanted to role-play, meet somewhere and then convince me to come home with you as if we didn’t know each other. And I said, ‘If you didn’t know me, you could never pull that off,’ and you pushed me and told me to fuck off, that I wouldn’t be playing myself, I’d be playing a character, someone gullible. And I’d said, ‘Maybe I could be a tourist. Tourists are gullible.’”

                John’s face reddened. “So when you texted back and said you’d think of somewhere ‘touristy’…”

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a _Now do you get it?_ expression. “So, are we going to do this or what? I already bought the jeans.” He gestured down to them. “I’m wearing _jeans_ , John. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

                John bit his lip and didn’t say anything.

                Immediately, Sherlock knew something was wrong. “You aren’t going to role-play, are you? So why are we here?” But he’d deduced the answer before he’d even finished asking the question.

                “We have to end this, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his hands. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that, since he wasn’t wearing his Belstaff, he had no where to put them. Jean pockets? _No, that’s lame._ Back jean pockets? Hips? _Definitely not hips._ He wasn’t a sassy eight-year-old girl.

                John shifted uncomfortably. “Sherlock? Did you hear what I said?”

                He looked at John’s hands, stuck in the pockets of his bomber jacket. That’s what he should have done, _stupid_. Gotten himself a jacket like that. He eyed John’s pockets enviously.

                “ _Sherlock_.”

                “Of course I heard you,” Sherlock snapped. He clasped his hands behind his back, finally deciding; at least this made him _look_ confident. And taller. He calmed his anger. “And I do not agree.”

                John sighed. “I know you don’t, but it’s what has to happen. I have a duty to my wife and family. I can’t be a… a philanderer. I’m not that person. I already hate myself enough for all the times I haven’t been home to help Mary in the last two months.”

                “Three,” Sherlock corrected.

                “Three, then. Even worse. I… I’ve lied to her. For three months. I just can’t keep doing it.”

                “So tell her,” Sherlock said, and edge to his voice. He cleared his throat to beat it down. “The truth.”

                John shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t get it, Sherlock. It would destroy her.”

                “I know you’ve been sleeping with Mary again,” Sherlock told him, as a matter of fact (not technically intercourse, but blow jobs—still sex), “and it hasn’t destroyed _me_.”

                John gaped at him. “How do you know—never mind.” He clamped his jaw shut, embarrassed and guilty.

                “See?” said Sherlock. “I know you’re sleeping with Mary, too, and I don’t care.” He _did_ care, a little bit (a lot, actually), but he wasn’t going to admit to that now.

                “It’s not the same,” said John, and for the first time in a while, he looked at Sherlock with pity. “I know you don’t understand, because you haven’t been with someone before, but—“

                “I understand perfectly,” Sherlock interrupted, a little peeved at the condescendence. “The difference is, I already knew you were sleeping with Mary when we… started. But she still thinks the two of you are exclusive. I’m not an idiot, John.”

                “Then why did you suggest—“

                “I was being _difficult_!” Sherlock exploded, suddenly unable to control his anger. “For God’s sake, don’t you know me by now? _You_ make sensible comments, _I_ thwart them with ridiculous, socially inept alternatives just to piss you off. Which I do, without fail, every time.”

                John glared at him. Sherlock could tell he was frustrated, he was gnawing at the inside of his cheek and the tips of his ears were bright red. _Good_ , thought Sherlock. “Don’t make me pay for your mistakes,” he added, after a beat. His eyes were fiery, combative.

                John’s matched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

                “You’re the one who married Mary,” Sherlock accused. “If you were in love with me, you should have said something, you shouldn’t have gone off and tied yourself to a woman you didn’t—“

                “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up!” John’s face had turned the color of his ears. “If you even felt an _ounce_ of something for me, it’s _you_ who should have said something! Mr. ‘Love is the greatest human weakness.’ What would have been the point of me confessing my feelings to a man who was anti-love?”

                “And what would have been the point of _me_ confessing to _you,_ when you kept telling anyone who would listed how absolutely _not_ _gay_ you were!”

                The two of them fumed at each other. Sherlock’s hands had become unclasped, and John’s were out of his pockets. They’d started to attract attention from some of the passersby.

                “You _left_ me,” John’s eyes were shining, his body trembling with rage. “You _left_ me, Sherlock, and I—what was I supposed to do? Tell me, what? Cry myself to sleep every night for the rest of my life? Resign myself to loneliness, knowing that I’d never find anyone else? I would have waited, Sherlock, if I’d had a word. _One_ word.”

                “I couldn’t give you a word,” said Sherlock, upset that this thing had come back to haunt him again.

                “And why _not_?”

                Sherlock felt his own eyes tear, to his annoyance. “Because,” he said, quietly, “they’d have killed you.”

                John blinked at him. “Who?”

                “The hit men that Moriarty had hired to shoot you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn’t jump off that building and commit suicide.”

                John’s face went from crimson to white in less than a second. Sherlock was pretty sure he’d stopped breathing.

                “ _What_?”

                Sherlock knew John well enough to realize that the question was rhetorical, that John _had_ really heard, and understood, he just had to process the information. Sherlock stood silently, waiting for him to do so.

                “You did that to go after Moriarty’s network,” John told him, his voice shrill. “Jumped, I mean. Faked your death. So they wouldn’t see you coming.”

                Sherlock pressed his fingers over his closed eyes, then rubbed his temples. His head was hurting. “No, that was never the plan. Not the original one. I’d have much rather hunted them ‘alive,’ with you by my side.” Sherlock opened his eyes, and saw John’s were positively swimming. He continued. “But Moriarty gave me an ultimatum, on that roof: kill myself, or he’d kill the people I loved. So I chose the former. Moriarty told me the hit men had instructions to follow through with the plan even if he was dead, which is why he shot himself,” Sherlock explained, “so that I could never figure out how to make him call them off.”

                “He could have been bluffing,” John said, in a small voice.

                Sherlock sighed. “Would _you_ have taken that chance?”

                A tear from each eye rolled down John’s cheeks. Sherlock had an urge to kiss them away, but John wiped them off with the back of his hand. “I didn’t know all that, Sherlock,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think—“

                “You had Mary,” Sherlock said, simply. “You were happy with her. You’d justified your new life. Anger, anger at me, would only cement that. The truth would have left you in pieces.” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his front jean pockets, in spite of himself. “And I’d already left you in pieces, once. I wasn’t about to do it again.”

                A half laugh, half sob escaped John’s lips. He shook his head. “And here I thought you were the most selfish human being on the planet. But really, you were just the opposite.” He smeared all the tears back to his hairline with his open palms. “My God. The _exact_ opposite. Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ , so sorry.”

                Sherlock stared at his double-knotted shoelaces (trainers—part of his costume). “I’m sorry, too.”

                John turned and sat on the edge of the fountain, leaning forward a bit, grasping the edges of the stone as if he were trying to anchor himself to it. Sherlock took a deep breath and moved to sit next to him.

                “We’ve fucked up,” John said, his eyes far away. “We’ve royally fucked this up, Sherlock.”

                “I know.”

                “Both of us. We’re both fucking _idiots_.”

                “Idiots who are fucking,” Sherlock commented, smiling a little.

                They sat for an extended period of time, Sherlock wasn’t sure how long. The air was warm, the first really warm, sunny day of the year, the perfect day to be sitting outdoors. Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling exhausted after their row.

                “I love you,” John said, finally.

                “I love you, too,” Sherlock said back.

                John grasped the sides of the fountain more tightly. “I can’t leave my family.”

                “I’m not asking you to.”

                John took a deep breath, deciding something. “They could never find out,” he said, on exhale.

                Sherlock turned to look at him, his heart beginning to beat faster. “They won’t.”

                “You can’t promise that.”

                Sherlock reached out and grabbed at John’s wrists, pulling his hands into his own. “They won’t find out.” He took a deep breath and stared into the eyes of the person he loved most in the world.

                “I promise.”


	6. The Party

                Sherlock glanced behind him, to make sure no one he knew was paying attention, before he extracted his second cigarette of the night and lit it with his hand cupped over the end. He took a long drag and exhaled in relief, his eyes closed. It had been a stressful two hours. _A stressful two weeks_ , he thought to himself.

                John had been gone, on holiday, visiting his parents for Christmas. “You’re going _where?”_ Sherlock had inquired, pretending he hadn’t heard correctly. He threw his head back farther on John’s lap to look up at his face.

                John sighed, continuing to massage Sherlock’s head. “To see my parents, for Christmas. They weren’t able to make it to the wedding, you know, and now with the baby… they want us to come stay with them for a couple weeks.”

                “I didn’t even know you _had_ parents,” Sherlock scoffed, sitting up on the couch and turning around to lay the opposite direction. He stuck his feet in John’s lap, and John began to massage them next.

                “Of course I— _Christ_ , Sherlock, your feet are _freezing!_ —of course I have parents. Everyone has parents.”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, but I’ve always assumed yours were dead.”

                “Why would you think that?”

                “Because,” said Sherlock, shaking John’s hands off his right foot and sticking out his left for its turn, “you’ve never once mentioned them or gone to see them in all the years I’ve known you. I’ve heard of your lesbian, alcoholic sister, but not your _parents_.”

                “You only know about Harry because I loaned you my phone that one time.”

                Sherlock snorted. “’That one time’… you mean the first time we met?”

                “No,” said John, tickling the bottom of his foot, “I mean the best day of my life.”

                “Stop!” Sherlock yelped, pulling his legs back. Then he looked at John and smiled, registering his words. John smiled back, and Sherlock felt a fluttering in his stomach.

                Suddenly, Sherlock’s smile soured. “So you’re leaving me. On Christmas.”

                “Sherlock, I have to. Mary’s adamant, and I haven’t seen my parents since I came back from Afghanistan—I have to get it over with.”

                “Well, then I want to come.”

                John smiled again, a little sadly. “You can’t.”

                “And why ever not?” Sherlock sat up, now cross. “You came for Christmas at _my_ parents’ last year. Are you embarrassed of yours? Because, and I’ll remind you again, you’ve already met mine—the bar has been set fairly low.”

                John laughed. “I liked your parents. A lot. And no, I’m not embarrassed of them, I just…”

                “Well, then you must be embarrassed of me.”

                “No! Although that would be more likely.”

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John winked. “What, then?”

                “It’s Mary,” John said, heavily. “I think part of the reason she wants to go is to have us spend some time together, away from… distractions.”

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You think she knows?”

                “No,” John shook his head. “No, but she’s certainly jealous of all the time we spend together. And I think she feels the rift in our relationship… she’s hoping that, you know, that my parents will watch the baby for a couple days and we can go off on our own…”

                Sherlock sat back and crossed his arms. “I see: you’re abandoning me on Christmas to go on sex holiday with your wife.”

                John just looked at him. “What do you want me to say?”

                Sherlock stood up and practically stomped to the kitchen. He really shouldn’t be this upset, he knew. The rules were very clear, had been for the last six months: they could keep seeing each other as long as Mary didn’t find out. And part of her not finding out involved her not noticing anything unusual—including any such “rifts.” John should go and rekindle his relationship with her, it would ensure that he and John could continue to see each other. _Think logically about this, Sherlock,_ he thought, standing over the sink and trying to cool his temper. He was annoyed that he’d been saying that to himself more and more often, lately.

                He heard John come up behind him, felt arms slide over his waist and pull him into a hug. John rested his head between Sherlock’s shoulders and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to make you jealous.”

                “I’m not jealous,” Sherlock lied. “I’m just upset that I’ll have to spend Christmas with Mycroft.”

                John laughed into his shirt. “He _is_ rather a Scrooge.”

                “Scrooge? Please, John. Scrooge turns good at the end.”

                So John had left for two whole weeks, no calls, no texts, no nothing. Gone completely. Sherlock had been desperate to find some way to occupy his time that didn’t involve sulking or daydreaming about John’s lips—he’d actually gone down to Scotland Yard to ask Lestrade if there were any cases to solve. There weren’t, really, but Lestrade allowed him to wander around the precinct and listen over the shoulders of the other detectives, correct their mistakes—until he got so many complaints that he had to ask Sherlock to leave the building. “For your own safety,” he’d joked.

                “Hey, Sherlock—“ Lestrade had called out, as Sherlock turned to leave. “Scotland Yard is having our holiday party on New Year’s Eve this year—you’re welcome to join. You’re sort of an honorary member down here, anyway.”

                Sherlock had blinked at him. “Do I look like I need your pity, Glenn?”

                Lestrade ran his tongue over his teeth in frustration. “It’s ‘Greg.’ And no, forget I said anything.”

                Sherlock had whirled around on his heel and exited Lestrade’s office. However, a second later, he popped back in. “Where’s this party?”

                Sherlock continued to puff on his cigarette, staring off the balcony at the city below. He wondered if he should have just stayed home, like he’d done for Christmas (alone, playing violin and eating through two whole tins of Mrs. Hudson’s homemade Christmas sweets). He’d had to make small talk with off-duty police for the last two hours, and he _hated_ small talk. _Why am I here?_ He looked at his watch—fifteen minutes until midnight, forty-four hours and fifteen minutes until John was home and back in his bed. He stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and sucked down the smoke. _God, I would kill for something stronger_ … he looked around at the other party guests on the balcony, who all had ciggies in one hand and drinks in the other. _A drink—maybe I should get a drink_. It wasn’t exactly his favorite drug, alcohol, but at least it was something. He stamped out the cigarette on the railing and headed back indoors, spotting the bar. He began to make his way through the crowd, thinking of what he should order, when two familiar faced appeared across the room.

                John and Mary.

                Sherlock blinked, in shock. Was it really them? How were they here? They must have come home early… but why were they _here,_ at the party? He tried to think up a reason, but then John’s eyes locked with his and Sherlock realized it didn’t matter why they were here—they were _here_.

                Sherlock squeezed through the morass and pushed in front of whoever they were talking to at the moment. “Welcome back!” he greeted, making sure to go to Mary first. He hugged her, then inclined his head at John. “John,” he acknowledged.

                “Sherlock.” John was grinning like a fool, making Sherlock self-conscious of his own expression. He took a breath and looked back at Mary.

                “I’m surprised, I didn’t expect you back until the second. How was the trip?” he asked. (Polite. Social. The previous two hours had made him a master.)

                Mary seemed a little bewildered by the intensity of Sherlock’s good mood. “It was lovely,” she said. “John’s parents were wonderful.”

                “They adored you,” John elaborated. “Surprisingly.”

                Mary gave him a look. “Surprisingly? What, am I not adorable?”

                John’s cheeks tinged pink. “No, I mean, for them—because they hate _everyone_.”

                Mary rolled her eyes and looked back at Sherlock. “That’s certainly not true, they’d just only ever met those tarts he dated before _I_ came along.”

                John laughed, then, and leaned in to kiss Mary on the cheek. “Whatever you say, dear.”

                Sherlock swallowed, resisting the urge to march over and push them apart. “Well, I’m pleased to hear you had such a good time.”

                “Thanks, yes, we did,” Mary confirmed, squeezing John’s hand and smiling at him. He smiled back, warmly.

                “Two weeks was a bit long, though,” he said, turning back to Sherlock. “Lestrade called and invited us to the party tonight, so we figured it was a good excuse to come back a couple days early.”

                Sherlock cleared his throat. “It’s actually great timing that you’re back now—I have a rather, uh, urgent case at the moment, and John, I was wondering if you had time to, erm, consult with me for a minute or two…”

                John’s eyes lit up, and he turned to Mary for her approval. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, rolling her eyes and smiling. “Go for it.”

                “Be back soon, love.” John kissed her on the head, then turned to Sherlock. “Shall we find somewhere quieter?”

                “That would be most wise,” he agreed with a subtle smirk.

                As soon as they were out in the hallway, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him into the nearby stairwell. “Sherlock!” John gasped, not expecting it. “What are you—“ Sherlock ignored him and hurried down the stairs, towing him behind. They went down two floors and then through a door, into a dimly-lit hallway. “Where are we going?” John asked, bewildered. “Sherlock?”

                Sherlock peered into a couple rooms before finding one that looked right; it was a small office, dark, with an empty desk and file cabinet, one half-window near the back. Sherlock dragged John inside and shut the door behind them. He glanced out the door’s window into the hallway, looking both ways before twisting the blinds closed.

                “What’s going on?” John asked, sounding quite puzzled. “Is this about—“

                But he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence; in the next breath Sherlock had him up against the nearest wall, their mouths locked together in a kiss.

                “ _Sherlock!_ ” hissed John, when Sherlock finally broke away to suck on his neck and let his hands roam under John’s jacket. “For the love of— _not_ _here!_ ”

                Sherlock kissed him again to shut him up.

                Despite John’s apparent unwillingness to snog, his hands somehow found their way around Sherlock’s waist, and he kissed back with his tongue. “Sherlock,” he whispered, as Sherlock broke away again to undo John’s belt buckle. “Sherlock, not _here_ …”

                “God I missed you,” Sherlock breathed, sticking a hand down John’s trousers.

                John’s body immediately surrendered to his touch. “Oh, Jesus, Sherlock. You can’t fucking _say_ things like that—“ he stopped talking to groan as Sherlock squeezed his hardening prick through the fabric of his pants.

                “I thought about you every day. Every second. How I wanted to touch you, to have you touch me back—“

                “Fuck,” John moaned, giving in. He grasped the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. You’ve no idea, it was awful.” Sherlock started undoing John’s shirt buttons, one after the other, his hands shaking with anticipation. “I’d be sitting there at dinner, with Mary and my parents, daydreaming about your voice, your hands, your mouth....” John grabbed Sherlock’s face to kiss him again. Sherlock leaned forward, sank into the curve of John’s torso.

                They snogged deeply, sensually, fingers in each other’s hair, mouths and tongues moving together rhythmically, rutting against one another in the same rhythm. They’d given up “angry sex” and “dominant sex” a long time ago. They’d only played those games at the beginning, back when this thing between them was still just a “thing.” But it wasn’t a “thing” anymore. It wasn’t an “affair,” anymore. It wasn’t throes of wanton lust. It wasn’t even fun.

                It was necessity.

                “Two weeks is too long,” Sherlock murmured, undoing his own belt as John slid his hands under his shirt and over his bare chest.

                “Two _days_ is too long,” John replied softly, helping Sherlock to slide off his trousers. Sherlock’s erection jutted out beneath his pants, nearly free—John reached down and finished the job, then pulled Sherlock back into a kiss.

                “Two _hours_ ,” Sherlock breathed, between their lips. He felt John’s curve up against his own, in a smile.

                “Sherlock,” John whispered, and Sherlock pushed John’s pants down far enough to let his cock fall forward. He reached down and gripped both erections in his hand, slowly pumping them together.

                “Don’t ever leave me again,” Sherlock ordered thickly, his voice muffled in John’s neck.

                “Never.”

                (The not making promises thing; that was in the past, too.)

                John’s breath was hot on Sherlock’s face, his lips damp against his ear. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sensations take him, build up in the pit of his stomach and run wild through the rest of his body. He’d learned a lot about enjoying sex in the last nine months, a lot about control—more specifically, how to lose it. That was a thing he thought he’d never be able to do, after years and years of training himself to do the opposite. But he’d done it with John. For John. Because of John.

                “I love you,” Sherlock whispered, speeding up his hand. He could feel John’s fingers gripping the back of his shirt—they hadn’t quite been able to wait until they were completely naked, but they didn’t have to be, not right now, not for this.

                “Oh God, Sherlock,” John said back, his voice raw and strangled. “I love you, too.”

                That’s when they heard the door open.

                Sherlock flew backwards, not sure if it was of his own volition or John’s pushing him off. They both turned their heads and saw—

                “Oh my God.” Mary dropped her drink, didn’t flinch as the stem broke from the base and the champagne inside splashed across the floor.

                “Mary—“ John said her name as he and Sherlock fumbled to pull up their trousers. “Mary, listen to me—“

                “Oh my God,” she said again.

                Above them, they heard the crowd counting down to midnight _: “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”_

Mary turned and fled back up the stairs.

                “Mary!” John shouted, grabbing his jacket and heading after her. His shirt flapped, unbuttoned, as he took the stairs two at a time. “Mary, wait!”

                By the time Sherlock had finished dressing himself, John and Mary were gone.


	7. The Teapot

                The third time John tried to break up with him, it stuck.

                It was nearly a full day after the party, and Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink. He’d been pacing the flat most of the night—every time he’d tried to sit or rest, the nerves would hit, the unsettling feeling would grip him. The only thing that made him feel any better was to pace.

                And to check his phone every other second.

                Sherlock knew enough to know he shouldn’t contact them. He shouldn’t call, or text, or go to their house, shouldn’t try to explain. He’d just make the whole thing worse if he did; that much he knew. But his imagination had gone berserk in the last twenty hours, imagining how _horrible_ the row must have been, imagining Mary asking for a divorce, imagining John coming back to 221B, a suitcase in tow—

                Because that was the only reasonable outcome of the situation. Sherlock realized, after pacing for some time, that part of the nerves he had were ones of excitement: this would break John and Mary apart. It could do nothing else—John clearly didn’t love her, had married her under a false pretense of being “over” Sherlock (Sherlock snorted, _silly John_ ). He’d only continued to stay with her for the sake of the baby, but now that Mary _knew_ , there was no way that was going to keep happening. Mary was too proud, too independent to continue a marriage with someone who didn’t love her. They’d divorce. They’d trade off watching the baby. John would move back _home_.

_Are you at Baker Street? We need to talk._

_Remember to show some sympathy_ , Sherlock told himself, when he’d read the text from John and his heart leapt into his throat. _Remember that this is hard for him. Emotionally tolling. Don’t show how excited you are, how happy you are that his marriage is over._

                The waiting was the worst part. It was nearly unbearable—not even the pacing was working. Instead, Sherlock went into the kitchen, imagining John making coffee there every morning. Into the bathroom, imagining John’s toothbrush on the sink next to his, his towel hanging to dry on the rack. Into his bedroom, imagining them sharing the bed every night.

                Sherlock made the bed. He cleared off one of the side tables. He took his clothes out of the top two dresser drawers and shoved them down into the bottom two, packing them in, not caring if they were now unfolded and wrinkled. He went to the closet, pushed all his suits and shirts to one side. _There,_ he thought. _There’s plenty of room for him, now._

                “Sherlock?”

                Sherlock tore from the bedroom, skidded out into the sitting room where John was standing. He looked like hell; dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, hair all mussed up in the back. _Gorgeous_ , Sherlock thought _. God, I love him_.

                That was when he noticed that John had no suitcase.

 _That should have tipped me off_ , he thought later, as he sat sobbing with his back to the bathtub and the tap on full-blast (trying to drown out the sounds of his lamenting and avoid Mrs. Hudson coming up to investigate). _I probably_ did _know then_ , he reasoned even later, weeping into the upholstery of John’s chair. _I probably just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Deleted the deduction, before I’d even realized what I’d deduced._

                But at the time, he’d just thought, _oh, John’s going to get his things later_.

                “Hey,” Sherlock greeted, trying to sound casual but understanding. He tried for a small smile, hoping that he didn’t look too happy.

                John’s face didn’t change—he just looked worn and defeated, same as when he walked in the door. He rubbed his hands across his tired eyes, and sighed.

                “Sherlock, sit down.”

                That’s what _actually_ did it, what made Sherlock realize that he’d severely miscalculated: the tone of John’s voice. It made his hair stand on end, drove a hot knife through his belly— _He’s not coming home_ , Sherlock realized. _He’s breaking up with me._

                John must have registered the change in Sherlock’s attitude, because his eyes suddenly began to tear. Meanwhile, Sherlock shook his head, unable to speak. “Please, Sherlock,” John asked him, sucking in a shaky breath. “Please.”

                “No.”

                John’s eyes pleaded.

                “ _No._ ” Sherlock turned around and went to the kitchen.

                “I don’t want to talk like this,” John said, in a small voice. “Don’t make me do it like this.”

                Sherlock picked up the pot of freshly-brewed tea (he’d made it himself, for once) and chucked it against the wall with all his might. It shattered immediately, shards of porcelain flying in every direction,  a dark, wet wash of tea bleeding down the wall and coagulating on the floor. He spotted the two cups and saucers and the sugar bowl and the creamer, still sitting quietly on the kitchen table, and threw each of them into the wall as well, for good measure.

                “You’re upset,” John said, stupidly.

                “No.” Sherlock spun around, his voice overwhelmed by sarcasm. “No, John, I’m not upset. I’m never upset. I’m a sociopath, I don’t feel anything. _Ever_.”

                John began to cry.

                “You don’t even love her,” Sherlock blurted. An annoying lump had formed in his throat.

                “Oh, Sherlock.” John wiped his face. “Can we please just sit?”

                “No,” Sherlock said, defiantly. If John was really going to do this, he wasn’t about to make it more comfortable for him.

                John sighed through his tears. “This is all my fault. I knew better, the whole time. I was just… I got so swept along… I tried to end things, so many times, but I just—just—“

                “Just! Just! _Just!_ ” Sherlock echoed, cruelly. His face had begun to quiver. _Stoppit_ , he ordered himself. _Stoppit, right now._

                “Sherlock, I didn’t mean for things to get like this.”

                “What did you mean for, then?” he snarled. “I told you I was in love with you. You kissed me. You wanked me right there—“ Sherlock pointed, for emphasis, to where the tea was already drying in a sticky amber stain, “on that wall. You told me you loved me, too. How did you _mean_ for things to seem, John? Because they seemed pretty clear to me.”

                “You don’t understand, and I know that, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

                “Then _make_ me!” Sherlock challenged. “Make me understand!”

                John gulped back more tears. “I… I made a vow…”

                “And that vow is utter shite, now, isn’t it?”

                “You made one too,” John whispered.

                Sherlock blinked at him, aghast. “That was back when I thought you were actually in love with your wife!”

                “I _am!_ ” John exploded. “I _am_ , that’s the whole fucking point, that’s what you don’t understand—“

                _“What?”_ Sherlock’s eyebrows nearly squished his eyes shut, they were drawn so far down in confusion. “How can you—“

                “Oh, Sherlock, you just… you’re so _new_.” John shook his head, his expression full of pity. “You’re so bloody _new_ at this. I’d forgotten what it’s like, how it _feels_ the first time.”

                Sherlock stared at him.

                “It’s not like in fairytales,” John said, as if Sherlock was a child. “There isn’t—it’s not ‘one person for everyone.’ There’s no such thing as ‘true love.’ There’s no such thing as ‘soul mates.’ You pick someone you love and you fucking _gamble_ , Sherlock. That’s marriage, that’s what it means; I gambled on Mary, she gambled on me. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, desperately,” John choked on another sob. “It just means that I chose her. I chose her, and I promised to keep choosing her for the rest of my life.”

                Sherlock didn’t want to hear any more. This was beyond him. That John could love them both was preposterous—Sherlock couldn’t imagine loving _anyone_ but John. He couldn’t imagine feeling like this about anyone else, ever. Loving both of them? That sounded like a cop-out.

                “Just tell me the truth,” Sherlock demanded, shrilly. “Just tell me you don’t really love me.”

                A fresh wave of tears cascaded down John’s cheeks.

                “ _Fuck!_ ” Sherlock screamed at him. And then he began to cry, too.

                “Sherlock—“

                “ _Out!_ ” he sobbed, throwing his arms across his face in embarrassment and shame. “Get the hell out of my flat!”

                John took a step toward him, instead. “ _Sherlock—“_

                “I’m _done!_ ” he shouted, pushing him back. “I’m done with you! Just leave me alone. _Leave me alone_.” He was crying so hard, he couldn’t see John’s face, anymore.

                “Ok,” John murmured, softly. “Ok.”

                And he left.


	8. The Cab

                He’d only allowed himself to cry that first day. And cry he did, in every way he remembered from his childhood; and then, when the day was over, he stopped.

                In the weeks that followed, there was the occasional middle-of-the-night weeping, after a particularly nice dream, but he didn’t count those; things done when switching from fantasy to reality in half-asleep states didn’t count. When he was awake, he was fully in control. He was proud of himself, for that.

                Mycroft had stopped by the second day, when the worst was already over. Sherlock didn’t know how he’d heard so quickly; had a sneaking suspicion that John had contacted him out of some warped concern for Sherlock’s wellbeing. _Guilt, more like_ , Sherlock thought bitterly.

                “If you say ‘I told you so,’" Sherlock said by way of greeting, “I’ll smother you to death with this blanket.” He pulled it up closer around his chin, staring at Mycroft from the couch.

                His brother sighed, heavily. “Deal.”

                Mycroft began to come round more often after that, several times a week. Sherlock tried not to be too annoyed by it—truthfully, he was grateful for the company. He would even help him talk through cases, from time to time, though that was actually _more_ annoying; most of the time, Mycroft would arrive at the solution in less than a minute and spend the rest of the visit teasing Sherlock about not knowing the answer.

                He saw John, once. It was nearly two years later, Sherlock was in the middle of the city attempting to hail a cab by jumping in front of it—he had somewhere he needed to be for a case, some epiphany had struck him and he had to get to wherever it wanted to lead him—and he’d flung open the door and froze as John’s wide eyes stared at him from the back seat. He’d blinked once, shut the door, and walked calmly back down the street to hail the next one.


	9. The Chocolate Bar

                Sherlock squinted at the stack of newspapers: _ROYAL SUCCESSION STILL UNDECIDED_.

 _Boring_ , he thought, as he grabbed one and dug out some money to give to the vendor. He hoped that not all of the articles had to do with the Queen’s recent death—he couldn’t care less about all that business. _Unless she’s been murdered,_ he thought, with a smirk. _Then I might be interested._

                “What’s ‘sook-ee-son’?”

                Sherlock turned and looked down at his side, where a little girl was staring up at him and pointing to the newspaper. _Six or seven years old_ , Sherlock thought. Her dark eyes were inquisitive, intelligent.

                “’Succession,’” Sherlock pronounced for her, finally extracting the money and handing it to the man behind the stand. “It means, something that comes after.”

                “Oh,” she said, looking back at the paper. “Like, who will be the new queen?”

                “Precisely.” He held out his hand for change.

                The little girl nodded, then looked back up at him. “Will you buy me a chocolate bar?”

                Sherlock blinked, surprised. He scanned the street. “Where are your parents?”

                “Mummy’s in that shop, there,” she told him, and pointed down the block.

                He raised one eyebrow. “And does she know you’re out here?”

                “Yes.” She attempted to make herself look innocent.

                “Alright, then,” he agreed, trying not to smile. “I’ll buy you a chocolate bar, but only if you promise to go back inside and do as she says for the rest of the day.”

                The child bit her lip, considering the proposal. “Okay!” she decided, and grinned brightly.

                “Okay. Pick which one you want.” She chose the largest one on the stand, and he counted out some of the change in his hand to give back to the vendor. The little girl unwrapped the chocolate and pushed her long, dark hair out of her face before taking a big bite.

                “You know,” Sherlock said to her, “you really shouldn’t take candy from strangers. Haven’t your parents ever told you that?”

                The girl swallowed her bite. “Yes,” she said. “Constantly.”

                Sherlock smiled. “What’s your name?”

                “Anna. What’s _your_ name?”

                “ _Sherlock?_ ”

                Anna spun around, and Sherlock looked up. His heart stopped beating.

_Mary._

                “Hi Mummy,” said Anna, taking another bite and looking back up at Sherlock. “Your name’s ‘Sherlock’? That’s funny.” She giggled into her candy.

                Sherlock blinked and glanced down at her again. _Anna. Mary’s daughter._ John’s _daughter._ “It _is_ rather funny,” he agreed, breathlessly. He gazed back at Mary and swallowed.

                “We should be off,” Mary said suddenly, snapping out of a momentary paralysis. “Come along, Annalise.”

                “Yes, Mummy.” Anna gave Sherlock a small, knowing smile, showing him how she was holding up her end of the bargain. “Bye,” she called, as Mary grabbed her hand.

                “Bye,” Sherlock murmured. They got into a cab; Mary pushed Anna in first, then stood up and looked back at him as if she wanted to say something… but instead, she turned and ducked inside. Sherlock saw Anna wave at him out the back window—he brought a hand up and slowly returned the gesture.

                A lump formed in his throat.

 _It’s just because I wasn’t expecting it_ , Sherlock reasoned. _I didn’t expect to see them again._ Ever _again._ That was silly, though. They all lived in the same damn city—it was shocking that he hadn’t seen _more_ of them.

                _Anna._ Sherlock’s insides twisted as he was struck by a thought: if John had chosen _him_ (and that wasn’t something he allowed himself to dream about very often), he probably would have had a hand in raising her. He hadn’t thought about that, not once in the last six years… had things gone differently, he would have become a sort of father. He thought of Anna’s sharp, smart eyes and the chocolate smeared on her face…

                He stood on the pavement and watched the taxi drive away until he couldn’t see it anymore.


	10. The Cemetery

                “You’re too old for this, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled as Sherlock limped into the sitting room. “This gallivanting around, chasing down criminals.”

                Sherlock scowled at him as he eased himself onto the couch and lifted his leg up on the coffee table. He arranged a bag of frozen broccoli over his knee and sat back with a sigh. “Maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “Maybe I should just retire. Then we can _both_ sulk around, reading bad literature and getting fat.”

                Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “It’s a rather enjoyable way of life. I don’t regret the additional weight one bit.” He patted it. “Keeps me quite warm in the winter.”

                Sherlock snorted. “That’s just the extra fabric you have to wear to hide it.”

                Mycroft ignored him and took another biscuit off the tray. He popped the whole thing in his mouth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. “Ah, delicious,” he said, but it was barely intelligible through his mouthful of crumbs. Some fell out and onto his chest, and he scowled. Sherlock chuckled.

                “Oh, by the way,” Mycroft said slyly, after he had cleaned himself and taken a drink of tea, “Mary Watson passed away last night.” He watched Sherlock over his teacup as he took another sip.

                Sherlock didn’t even bother hiding his shock. “What? What happened? Was she ill?”

                “For a long while, yes. Breast cancer, apparently.” Mycroft tutted. “Such a terrible way to go, cancer. I’d much rather… I don’t know… _explode_ in a plane crash, or something.”

                “Jesus, Mycroft! You don’t have to be so morbid about it.”

                Mycroft rolled his eyes. “It _is_ death,” he said. “Anyway, the service is on Saturday. I’m told they are expecting quite a few people to attend.”

                Sherlock looked at him. “So?”

                “So…” Mycroft sat up and reached over to grab the book he was reading, “if you decided to make an appearance, you most likely could do so without being… ah… _seen_.”

                Sherlock set his hands on either side of his seat. “And why would I want to make an appearance?”

                “Oh, I don’t know…” Mycroft trailed off. He grabbed another biscuit and reopened his book.

                Sherlock was about to retort when he caught a glimpse of the spine. “Dan Brown?” he scoffed. “For God’s sake, Mycroft, how the hell can you read that rubbish? His deductions are completely unrealistic—“

                “It’s entertaining,” Mycroft told him. “It’s a… how do they say… _guilty pleasure_.” He chuckled to himself and turned the page.

***

                There _were_ quite a few people at the funeral. Sherlock showed up late, on purpose, so that he could sneak in and sit in the last row; but he ended up having to stand, as all the pews were full. He slinked along the back wall and leaned against a pillar, taking in the scene.

                And looking. He was actively looking, too.

                It didn’t take long to spot John—Sherlock would’ve recognized the back of his head anywhere. His hair was completely silver, though still thick and full (at least, it looked that way from behind). His shoulders looked a little more stooped than Sherlock remembered…. _From old age_ , he thought. _Or sadness._ He tried to pay attention to the eulogy, but it was nearly impossible now that he’d seen John. He kept wondering if John was going to get up and talk—probably not, he hated public speaking. But oh, how nice it would be to hear his voice…

                Sherlock lingered in the shadows as the pallbearers brought the casket down the aisle and out the front doors. John was one of the bearers, of course, and it was the closest Sherlock had been to him since that almost-cab ride all those years ago. He could see the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He could see—

                “You coming along to the cemetery, too?”

                Sherlock jumped a little as a voice spoke to him from behind. He turned around and observed a young woman with long, dark hair and dark, clever eyes. She smiled, tentatively. “Sherlock.”

                Sherlock was a little bewildered. “Do you remember me?”

                Anna’s smile became firmer. “Of course. That nice man with the funny name who bought me a chocolate bar and made my mother cry the whole way home.”

                Sherlock’s face fell. “I didn’t…”

                “Don’t worry,” Anna interrupted, her expression still friendly. “It was a long time ago. Made me more curious, than anything.”

                Sherlock nodded. Then, “I’m sorry about M—about your mother.”

                Anna’s smile turned sad. “Thank you. Yeah, it was a bit of bad luck, I’d just headed back to uni when Dad called.” She twisted her hair in her hands. “She wasn’t supposed to go for another few months… But it’s for the best, you know? She’s not suffering, anymore.”

                Sherlock nodded again.

                “So,” said Anna, her smile returning to its previous warmth. “Are you coming to the cemetery?”

                He stared at the ground. “I don’t think… your father…”

                Anna’s eyes widened. “Oh, did he know, then?”

                Sherlock looked up, sharply.

                “About you and Mum,” she clarified.

                “What about us?”

                “You know…” Anna cleared her throat. “That you two were still in love.”

                Sherlock’s mouth fell open. “What?”

                “Erm, I mean, I assumed…” Anna’s eyes shifted around nervously. “She was so upset, that day…”

                Sherlock’s face relaxed as he understood. “Ah, I see. No, we were never… we weren’t in love.”

                Anna looked embarrassed and confused. “Oh. I’m sorry, I…”

                “Don’t be,” he interrupted. “It was the most logical assumption to make.” He stood awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

                “So, what was it, then?” Anna looked at him, expectantly. “I mean, why did she cry that day?”

                Sherlock took a deep breath. “It’s a long story,” he said, deflecting. “And you have to get to the cemetery.”

                Anna crossed her arms and smirked. “You can tell me in the car, then.”

                “I don’t think I should—”

                “What else have you got to do today?” she asked, as if she knew him. “Come on, you don’t even have to get out; just wait in the car.” He wasn’t sure how to argue, and she could see it. “Come on, Sherlock. It’s been twelve years since you bought me that chocolate bar. I’ve been curious about this for _twelve years_.”

                Sherlock sighed. He wasn’t sure why he was about to give in; he supposed Anna was just very persuasive. And, _he_ was curious, too—if he told his story, Anna was bound to tell him a few in return…

                “Alright,” he conceded. “But you have to promise not to tell your father that you saw me.”

                Anna smiled and dragged her index finger over her chest.

                “Cross my heart,” she said.

***

                Anna sat stunned, holding both hands on the steering wheel even though the car was parked.

                “Whoa,” she said, clearly shell-shocked. “I didn’t expect that.” She looked back at Sherlock, across the center consol. “Wow.”

                Sherlock sighed and touched his fingers together in his lap. The retelling had exhausted him—he hadn’t spoken about it, not really, since it happened all those years ago.

                Anna sat back and rested one arm in the windowsill, watching the hearse pull up. She ran her fingers across her lips, deep in thought, then suddenly turned to face him again. “You know,” she said, “I used to think that you were my real father.”

                Sherlock blanched. “ _What?_ ”

                “It’s the dark hair,” she told him, chuckling. “Well, that was one piece of it, anyway. Both my parents are just so… _blonde_.” She wrinkled her nose, as if it was the bane of her existence that they were so. “But the other part was the silly story that I’d come up with to make sense of why Mum cried. I thought that she was in love with you,” Anna explained, “and that, for whatever reason, she’d married my dad instead. From there it was an easy jump to thinking that you might actually be my real father. Especially easy because of Dad, because of how he was.”

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

                “He was…” Anna sought for the right words, “just not _there_. Not present. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful father, and I know he loved my mum and me very much… but sometimes, he just seemed like he’d rather be somewhere else. It used to make me so angry—something would happen in our lives, something scary or tough or even exciting, and he’d retreat. Not physically, but emotionally.” She sighed. “It was easy to believe, in those times, that he wasn’t my real father. That _you_ belonged in our house instead.

                “Now it makes sense,” she went on, staring out the window again. John and the other bearers were pulling the coffin out of the hearse. “He really _didn’t_ want to be there. He wanted to be with you.”

                Sherlock felt a breath of hope catch in his chest. _Go away_ , he thought. _Be gone. It’s been nearly twenty years._

                Anna sighed. “Oh, Dad,” she muttered under her breath. She turned back to Sherlock. “He’s a complete dickhead, sometimes.”

                Sherlock laughed and rubbed his tired eyes. “I’ll agree with that,” he said. He peered out the window, watching as they were about to lower Mary’s coffin into the ground. “You should go.”

                Anna nodded. “Yeah.” She reached around in the backseat for her cardigan and put her hand on the door handle. Then she paused and turned back. “Will you wait here?” she asked. “I still have so many more questions…”

                Sherlock considered her for a moment. “Alright.”

                She smiled, and got out of the car.

***

                _Tap tap tap._

                Sherlock woke with a start, his arms folded over his chest—must have fallen asleep right after Anna had left. He turned and squinted over to the driver’s seat, where the tapping had come from.

                John’s face loomed in the window. He waved, briefly, and cracked open the door. “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

                Sherlock gaped at him, in shock, not quite believing it.

                “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then,” John said, opening the door wider and climbing into the seat. He shut the door and turned to face him. “So,” he started, then stopped. “Hi.” He made what Sherlock assumed was an attempt at a smile.

                Sherlock didn’t trust himself to speak; he was trying, and failing, to gauge John’s mood.

                “Anna told me you were here,” John said, by way of explanation. “She… I thought I should, you know, say hello.”

                “And now you have,” Sherlock finally found his voice.

                John looked at his hands.

                “She said she wouldn’t tell,” Sherlock blurted out. “She promised she wouldn’t tell you I was here.”

                John’s lips curved up. “She’s a liar, that one.” He shook his head. “Trouble, is what she is. We’ve had quite a time dealing with it.” He didn’t seem to be upset—on the contrary, he seemed rather proud.

                “Does she get that from you, or from Mary?” Sherlock asked. He meant it to be an insult, but John didn’t notice. He laughed, instead.

                “Both, I suppose. The poor girl didn’t have a chance.”

                They sat in silence then, for a moment. Of all the times Sherlock had dreamed of seeing John again, of all the things he thought he’d say, the pleas, the threats, the tears—this scenario had not crossed his mind. None of those things he’d said in his head seemed appropriate, anymore. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this… wasn’t sure if he _could_ feel anything. _But what about that hope_ , he reminded himself. _You felt hope—_

“Sherlock.” John tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t. “I…” He was struggling for something to say.

                “I’m sorry about Mary,” Sherlock broke in. He looked down, too. “Truly, I am.”

                “Thank you,” John said, giving him a sad smile. “It’s not like we didn’t expect it… she was really sick, for a really long time. It’s almost a relief, in some ways.”

                Sherlock nodded. Anna had said the same thing.

                “Look, Sherlock.” John rubbed his hands together. “I’m just going to… to jump in, here. I feel like I owe you an apology. An absolutely _gigantic_ apology.” He paused. “I don’t have the words for it, though. Nor enough time… nor breath.” His eyes suddenly shone. “What I said to you, that day, it…” he paused again, then nodded. “Yeah, it still haunts me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret what I said.”

                Sherlock leaned back and studied him, carefully. “Which part?” he asked.

                John’s eyes swam. “ _Every_ part.”

                It was very surreal, to hear John apologize, after years upon years of imagining him doing just that. Sherlock felt as if he was in a movie, that the director would yell “cut!” and John’s face would relax, he’d get out of the car and walk away without a second thought. Like he had, that fateful day, in 221B.

                “I’m a fool, Sherlock.” John’s chin began to tremble. “Fuck, I didn’t think I had any crying left in me, today.” He wiped his nose and looked up at the ceiling, trying to regain his composure. “I’m a total fool. I went through my entire life trying to convince myself that I was right, that there isn’t just one person for everyone… but I wasn’t right. Because no one in my life has ever compared to you.”

                Sherlock’s mouth went dry. “It’s a bit in poor taste, to say that now,” he remarked, his voice cold, “what with your dead wife newly buried a hundred meters away.”

                John nodded in shame. “I know,” he said, pathetically. “But you’re here, now, and I thought… Christ, Sherlock, there’s never been a good time. I’ve wanted to say this stuff for years, but there was never a good time.”

                “Any time,” Sherlock spat. “Any time would have worked for me.”

                John’s tears spilled over, and he didn’t respond.

                “You want to know why you waited until now to say anything?” Sherlock continued, his own vision blurring. “Because now, your wife is dead. Because now it’s easier. Because now you don’t have to deal with the fallout.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “Jesus, John,” he huffed a laugh, “you can’t even admit what a coward you are.”

                John put his face in his hands. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice muffled by his palms, “Sherlock, that’s what I’m doing. I _was_ a coward. I _am_ a coward. A no-good, bloody coward who broke your heart and didn’t have the balls to admit I was wrong. I would have rather been miserable for my entire life than accept that I made a mistake. And by the time I’d realized what I’d done, it was too late.”

                “Too late?” Sherlock echoed, his eyebrows drawn together. He stared at John in his stooped-shouldered, silver-haired, wrinkled-skinned stated. At his face, all red and puffy and features pinched in from crying. He thought of every time he’d felt alone, or inadequate, or unworthy in the last twenty years; it was all due to what John Watson had done. He’d smashed Sherlock’s heart into a pulp.

                _Not unlike that teapot_ , Sherlock thought. He’d forbidden Mrs. Hudson to clean up the stain; kept it there as a reminder of what sentiment could do to him. It inspired him to avoid feelings, to avoid caring about another person. To avoid sex. To avoid love. It was still there, the stain. It would still be there when he went home today.

                _And yet…_

                “Oh, Sherlock,” John sobbed. “You never would have taken me back. _I_ wouldn’t have taken me back.”

                Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “You’re right,” he muttered between them. John looked up. “I wouldn’t have.”

                John’s face broke into a thousand pieces. He nodded, trying and failing to wipe away all the tears. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

                Sherlock continued to peer at him over his hands, not saying anything.

                “Well,” John sniffed, after a beat, “I‘ll be off, then. Just…” his face trembled, “thank you. For listening.” He glanced at Sherlock one last time, then turned and got out of the car.

                Sherlock waited until the door was closed before getting out himself. He popped out around the front of the vehicle. “John!” he called, to John’s retreating figure.

                John turned around, slowly, his face still a wreck.

                Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets. “You’re an idiot.”

                John stared.

                Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course I would have taken you back,” he said. “I would take you back _now_.”

                John’s lips bubbled a bit before he finally found a reply. “You… you would?”

                “Of course I would, you daft git,” Sherlock scolded him, annoyed. “You’re the love of my life.”

                John choked out a laugh through his tears. “Christ,” he swore, wiping his face. “You’re an arsehole, you know that? Just an _arsehole_. I don’t know if I even want you anymore, after that.” He was crying again.

                Sherlock’s face twitched into the hint of a smile. “Of course, you do,” he said, gently.

                John sighed and started toward him. “Of course, I do.”

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read! Hope you all enjoyed the happy ending :)


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